


The Terrible Dream

by TheTalkingPeanut



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, EPICFAIL, F/M, FML, I Misunderstood a Quote BIGTIME, M/M, Mindfuck, Misuse of a Utensil, Other, Past Torture, Slight Beastiality, humor?, not a lot really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14506440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTalkingPeanut/pseuds/TheTalkingPeanut
Summary: MISUNDERSTOOD QUOTE: "What a terrible dream. You were marrying Gladstone and I was at a restaurant. That satanic pony was there as well, a massive fork in its hoof and it turned on me!"(I'm going to hell for this mistake...) X[





	The Terrible Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Holy f***k up, Batman! This took way longer to write than I ever planned. I started in December after I saw the movie the first time (seen it 10 times since then in theaters--two times for free) and now I am done. Only took 8 years and not only that, but it turns out I have misinterpreted what the whole damn dream was about, to begin with. (Maybe if a certain 'Downey' didn't mumble his lines...) SO. NOW this is WAAAY out in left field. Oh well. It's my own interpretation of that strange 'dream' Holmes said he had after the incident on the train. Don't really give a fart anymore, since it took too long to finish in the first place. I added characters he never mentioned and lengthened it because I can. So there. It's not very good, people. Just warning in advance. Tell me what you think, because I have no idea if this is coherent to anyone else anymore...which I highly doubt...not with my new 'revelation' x(
> 
> Oh, and sorry if it seems OOC. I've never been very good with dialogue. Working on it, though. :/   
> Also sorry about the spacing and any other stupid mistakes. Can't get the damn thing to work and you know what? I don't care anymore. So there ya go. Happy birthday.

He closed his eyes.  
_You'll live to regret it,_ his mind echoed far away.  
But he simply didn't care.  
\----------  
When his vision came to him, Holmes was seated at a table in some restaurant, alone, across from a great commotion.  
A crowd parted and he saw Watson, sitting in a chair, dressed in his wedding attire. A radiant smile taking dominance over all.  
He was so very happy. Beaming with such pride to his lovely, dainty new wife who was dressed in her simple yet elegant bridal gown. Flashing pearly whites to the on-lookers around them, she sat comfortably across Watson's lap.  
Drooling and panting.  
....There was something wrong with this scene before Holmes.  
_Correction_ ; there was something wrong with _Mary._  
Her head was the dog, Gladstone, there was no mistaking that. So were the hands, which were paws. But the body was (mostly) Mary. The dog collar was peaking out around the fat neck as well as rolls that Mary never had oozed out wherever the corset was incapable of covering.  
She seemed to be Gladstone in Mary's body, or Mary in Gladstone's body. Holmes wasn't entirely sure which one it was. Didn't give a great deal of thought nor care to either. His attention more focused on whome she was dribbling over and his obliviousness to it.  
The detective tilted his head when the Gladstone/Mary thing began to generously slobber over Watson's cheek, and the man laughed and nuzzled It back. Blissfully unaware of the pervercity of it all.  
"How sad that is."  
Holmes broke his gaze from Watson and turned, startled by the voice coming from his right. He believed himself alone at the table, and so was more or less surprised to see someone beside him staring straight ahead.  
Let alone Lord Blackwood, of all people.  
The man whom Holmes at one point considered an enemy sat poised and perfect, gloved hands resting in his lap. He looked exactly how Holmes remembered last seeing him.  
Minus a few alterations.  
He was unearthly pale, almost translucent, striking an even more pronounced contrast to his dark features. Thin spider web veins spread across any visible skin. The thick heavy chain which ended his life abruptly was still wrapped around his neck. His eyes were bloodshot and glossy, but the irises had a frightening glow deep within them. A broken neck bone protruded from underneath his collar.  
They weren't touching each other but Holmes could still feel the icy cold air emanating off of him. He shivered unnoticed.  
Holmes let his eyes scan over the corpse than flicked back to the face.  
"How so?" Holmes was unable to respond with anything better under the current circumstances.  
Blackwood gave a single nod, gesturing toward the crowd. It was in that tilt that Holmes realized the other man hadn't moved a muscle before hand.  
"Your friend, the thing you care about more than anything else in this world, has easily replaced you with that singular creature."  
Blackwood may have looked a frightful mess, but there was no denying that his voice was just as deep and hypnotic as it had ever been. Maybe even more so.  
Holmes almost missed it. Almost.  
He shrugged indifference. "She is hardly singular; dullfully plain being the more accurate definition. Or rather 'It' as I've always suspected. But I'm sure It serves some useful services--knitting unanimously not being one of them. Rest assured I've never considered 'It' as a replacement or any form of competition--"  
"Of course you do." Blackwood interrupted. A melancholy smile ghosted his features. He turned his head, and Holmes found himself unable to look away from those dead eyes.  
How sad they were. How utterly lost. Alone. "Why else would you give up so easily? Because you feel inadequate. You know deep down in your soul the one thing that scares you more than death is the loss, and abandonment of _him_...  
"That, is why you let go without a fight."  
Holmes was cut short from any response by the sound of someone trying to stifle a cough coming from his left side. A familiar voice followed.  
"Ever the dramatist. Your talents would have been more suited as a man of the theatre."  
Holmes turned. Irene Adler had a hand on her chest as she cleared her voice with seeming great difficulty. She, just as Blackwood, looked exactly as Holmes had last seen her. But unlike Blackwood, Irene still had a great deal of color yet. She appeared more or less healthy except she had the same unearthly gleam in her eyes as the dead man.  
Yet overall she was still just as beautiful as Holmes had ever remembered her.  
When it seemed she had gotten control over her cough, she looked into Holmes' eyes. A sad smile formed on her lips. Her gaze was sorrowful.  
Holmes felt a pain in his chest as he looked upon Irene, the memory of what had happened to her at the hands of Moriarty flash flooding into his mind. He knew not what to say. Nothing said could ever fix what had been done. But still...  
Suddenly Irene doubled over, hand flying to her mouth with the table napkin. She squeezed her eyes tight and began making the most god awful hacking sounds ever heard.  
Blackwood let out a sigh through his nose.  
He leaned in close to Holmes' ear, a habit of his. "I would advise for you to move back. This has occasion to get, unfavorable, for those nearby."  
"In what sense?" Homes whispered with an eyebrow raised.  
Irene leaned back, opened her mouth wide and lurched forward. With a loud cough she regurgitated a massive, globby lump of something bloody into her napkin. It was the size of her palm. When it came out blood droplets flew every which way. Holmes's face included.  
Blackwood moved away in time, untouched.  
Irene dropped the napkin onto the table and collapsed back against her chair with a loud sigh. "That feels much better."  
After a few beats, she took a deep breath then sat back up, pulling out a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed at the residue on her mouth. Then turned back to Holmes and smiled once more.  
For a moment, Holmes stared at the globby mess in horror. Then he raised his eyes to her, and gave a half smile.  
"A memorable greeting as ever. Always a pleasure. Doing well I see." Holmes stated dryly.  
"Yes. Much better than I had expected." She gently began wiping the blood off his face. Once cleaned to her satisfaction, she tucked the hanky back into her sleeve. "Of course, one never knows what to expect when it happens, until it does." Picking up a spoon she began fixing her hair in its reflection. "Your mind conjures up all sorts of fantasies on the subject. Take Poe for instance; he was downright obsessed on it," Irene flicked her eyes over to the doctor and his 'bride', "…to which I now realize he wasn't that far off."  
Holmes and Blackwood followed her gaze to where the former was scratching the neck and back of the latter, who was thumping Its leg on the ground enthusiastically.  
With Its tongue hanging out. Watson laughed like he hadn't a care in the world.  
"But," Irene continued, going back to her appearance. "It's only temporary. So long as you go when the time is needed. Which yours should be soon."  
He stared at her. She hummed to herself as the ambience of the restaurant carried on around them.  
Eventually Holmes rubbed the bridge of is nose and let out a long sigh. "Even though your entrance deserves comment, and your blatant desire for me to answer your baited statements is obvious, I am not in the mood. So forgive the lack of tacked and curiosity but; what are you rattling on about, woman?"  
Irene froze, hand at her hair. She lowered both arms and turned to Holmes, then to Blackwood with an incredulous look on her face.  
Blackwood had his eyes closed tight, head slightly lowered. Irene glared at him.  
"You haven't told him." Her voice was dangerously low.  
"Told me what exactly?" Holmes turned to Blackwood. "That this wasn't a social call? How shocking."  
Blackwood slowly responded. "I was in the process of revealing to him--"  
_"Revealing?"_ Irene whispered fiercely. "My god this isn't one of your magic tricks!"  
"I had it well under control until you materialized." He paused, then added "And for the last time they were never 'tricks', but masterful works of flawless illusion."  
"It was cheap tricks and nothing more. You couldn't pull a rabbit out of a hat without bribing it first!"  
Irene sat back, closing her eyes with a huff. "Men. I should have known it is impossible to get them to do anything right when left to their own devices."  
Blackwood snapped his gaze to her.  
"My powers of persuasion were all I needed to get me where I wanted."  
"A short drop and a sudden stop?" She smirked.  
A dark fury made his eyes burn. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."  
"So sorry to remind you of yet _another_ failure, but, the Professor beat you to it." She winked.  
"I hate to break up this charming reunion," Holmes interrupted. "but may I draw your attention back to my previous question; will someone be so kind as to tell me what anyone is conversing about? Why are you two even here? Where is it exactly that I am, and -most importantly- am I the only one who is dying to enquire why Watson is caressing Gladstone?"  
Irene looked down at the table and Blackwood sat silent, once again staring straight ahead. For a moment, it seemed as though neither one was going to answer.  
Then, after a short time, the silence was broken.  
"I didn't want to be the one to tell you this." Irene's voice was soft, a great pain behind each word. "But I wanted to be there when you found out. You have a right to know--but I couldn't..." She said the last no louder than a whisper.  
Irene smiled and looked at Holmes, speaking carefully. "Nothing has quite gone our way, has it? You'd think I'd be use to it by now, when it concerns you and I...Oh well..." She paused, searching his face. Then continued. "I know it will be difficult for you to comprehend what I am stating...but the simple, logical, and completely truthful answer to all your questio--"  
"You're dead." Blackwood finished with a curt response.  
Among his many self-proclaimed talents, Holmes would always remind everyone he met (either intentionally or not) that when it came to human emotions, it was more of an acute knowledge he had--when referring to himself--and less of a regular practice. There had been a handful of accounts to the contrary, one of them happening right now as Holmes's eyebrows shot up as he looked at Blackwood. A prime example of surprise frozen on his face.  
He blinked. Then his mouth gave a twitch. He bit his bottom lip and said nothing as his head slightly nodded. It was all he could do to fight back a laugh.  
Irene stared in shock at Blackwood, her eyes wide.  
"I thought we were going to break it to him gently." She said through clenched teeth.  
"You were taking too long."  
"And you have a neck bone sticking out, but at least I was gracious enough not to point out the obvious!" She countered.  
Blackwood gawked in mortification, eyes bulging. His hand flew up to where the chain was around his neck, felt around till he found the bone. With an air of embarrassment he gave an 'excuse me', turned away and popped it back in with a sickening 'crunch'.  
Holmes' face slackened. A sudden chill streaked down his spine at realizing just how real all this seemed. As if a part of him knew, but refused to admit the possibility that he might have...  
"I am not dead." Holmes stiffened. He didn't much care for the sounds of those words, as if they felt wrong coming out of his mouth. Or even more the fact that he stated them so flatly without any feeling, as though he didn't believe them.  
"I know this is difficult to understand." Irene began, placing a gloved hand on his forearm. He jerked it away as if it burned.  
_"I am not dead."_ He repeated, unnecessarily louder. "I cannot be dead. I am fully concious of what and where I am. This is simply an exceptional nightmare and nothing more. I will wake up and all you hallucinations will go back to the hells with which you crawled from." Holmes closed his eyes and concentrated. He pressed his palm to his temple and pressed hard, straining his mind to forcibly will himself to wake up.  
Something flushed against his right side and grabbed his upper arm. He flinched and went rigid from the touch.  
"What is the last thing you remember Holmes?" Blackwood's voice penetrated down into his soul. It's deep resonance made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  
He really did almost miss it.  
"I hate it when you do that." Holmes stated, trying to shake him off. But Blackwood would not be turned down so easily.  
He tightened his grip. "What is the last thing you remember?"  
"What relevance does that hold?"  
"What is it? Or can you not recall?"  
"Of course I remember. Although I hardly find the significance of elucidating this." Holmes snapped at him. He tested the hold the dead man had on him by making an attempt to jerk his arm away. But Blackwood's hold was stronger than he originally thought. It didn't even budge. Nothing.  
Restlessness was kicking in, and Holmes felt he had let this go on long enough. It was time to end it. But when he spoke next, he surprised himself when instead of voicing protest, he rattled off exactly what Blackwood wanted from him.  
"I am on a train leaving from Hel Brom. The gypsy woman is singing an unfamiliar tune from my position on the floor, of which I am paying little attention to. Watson is in front of me stitching himself back up. Tamas is gazing out the open door."  
"What are you doing?"  
"I am watching Watson. I… My shoulder throbs and I am growing increasingly tired..." A sickening feeling grows in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. He doesn't want to continue what had happened. But why not? What had transpired? Does he remember?  
It was a feeling he got after closing his eyes. It was...  
He feels his strength draining away. Blackwood is now too close for his comfort. He moves in even closer.  
"Then what?" He's trying to get Holmes to confess that which he doesn't want to remember. But why doesn't he want to remember?  
"I… I need to regain my strength. It was all too much, and I am so very tired… I only needed a short rest." It pained him to say it. A major struggle to let it out. But why? All he longed for was sleep.  
Why was that so wrong? Why does it now feel like he made another terrible mistake?  
Was he truly more injured than he understood? Had he finally gone too far? Was he so blinded with the need to one up his enemy he forego everything else? Had he lost everything? Was it even worth it?  
...Was this the end?  
Holmes hadn't even noticed Blackwood let go, giving him space.  
Irene laid a gentle hand on his. Her voice was sympathetic. "Blackwood and I, are deaths were swift. But you were tortured. The pain…" She paused. "…was more than anyone would be able to withstand. It's a miracle you even lasted as long as you did."  
The crowd bustled louder as Watson stood and escorted his 'wife' over to the dancefloor. Gentlemen clapped him on the shoulder, their faces red with celebration. Ladies doted over Mary/Gladstone as It paused to scratch Its ear with Its foot, then trotted up to Watson. One of the groomsmen slipped on a puddle of drool left behind.  
It was all just noise in his ears. All of it.  
"This cannot be right. I must be dreaming." Holmes shook his head briskly. What they were implying was impossible. It simply wasn't possible. Now was not the time for blackened thoughts such as this. Too much was at stake. The case wasn't finished.  
"Do you hurt?" Blackwood asked. He continued without bothering to wait for a response. "As Miss Adler has stated; you were tortured. The suffering must have been indescribable. But I am most certain you feel quite at peace, now." Blackwood moved his head to catch Holmes' eye. Then he looked down at the detective's shoulder and nodded to it. "And yet you still bleed."  
Holmes touched his shoulder. It was soaking wet. He brought his fingers into view which were now coated in a dark red liquid. He pailed.  
"I…could have sworn that had clotted…"  
"Not here. Never here." Irene shook her head somberly. "You remain exactly how you--" Then covered her mouth as another coughing fit overtook her. She glanced to Blackwood. He continued where she left off.  
"How you were when the infliction stole your life. Whatever the delay of the occurrence is irrelevant. If you die in an explosion upon impact, or eventually succumb to a long suffering illness from many years past makes no difference here. If it was the cause of your death, then it plagues you forever. And as you are now fully aware the wounds never heal.  
"Blissfully," Blackwood added after a roll of his shoulders (causing several popping sounds), "The pain is absent. Must thank someone for small favors."  
Holmes felt numb. But he still refused to believe it. He shook his head with a 'no', ashamed at how it was no louder than a whisper.  
Irene handed him something. He looked down to the spoon which she was offering. "Here, take it. If nothing else is going to convince you than perhaps this will. Look at your eyes. Please Sherlock, look."  
For a moment he did nothing. He couldn't understand the necessity of this, or how a spoon could prove anything. Yet there was a small part of him that knew definitively what she wanted him to see. He grabbed it weakly and brought it up to one eye. He stared at the distorted reflection for what felt like ages, not wanting to believe what was there. He moved the spoon to the other one. There was no change.  
The image staring back at him was chilling.  
Deep within his irises, practically shrieking back at him, was a sinister light that burned like a low hum.  
The very same ones that shone in both Irene Adler and Lord Blackwood.  
"Oh." Was all the detective said as he lowered the spoon with little care to its well being.  
"I am so sorry about this, Sherlock." Irene spoke sincere, but Holmes refused to look at her. He could only stare at the table, numb.  
She touched him again. "I have never wished this fate upon you. You must believe me! If there was anything that I could have done to prevent this I would have leaped at the chance."  
For some reason, Irene became desperate for him to look upon her, acknowledge her. But he wouldn't.  
She brushed back his hair, near tears. "I never wanted you to get hurt..."  
"Nor I." Blackwood added. Irene looked to him. He sighed through his nose. "Possibly towards the end, yes. But not once had I ever wanted you dead. This is the truth, if you can except it."  
Blackwood gazed at the late detective, who seemed at a loss as to what or where he was.  
"I don't believe..." Holmes mumbled.  
Irene gave a breathy gasp, looked up. "Do you feel it?" She whispered. "It comes."  
Blackwood stared slowly up, around. "Yes. It is here." His words were sad, empty.  
Holmes shivered. There was something close to an electrical charge growing steadily stronger around him. He closed his eyes. He did not care for it.  
"Listen to me, Sherlock. You have a choice now." Irene pleaded. Her grip on his arm tighter. "You can either go now, to a place we cannot follow. A place so much better than this hell."  
"Or you can remain here, with us." Blackwood leaned into him. Had his voice changed? It almost sounded like he was begging...  
"But you must choose fast. Oh! Here it is!" Irene and Blackwood leaned back as a shock of light encompassed Holmes, lighting up every shadow around him. He gasped, lifted his head and opened his eyes to its brilliant shine that seemed to call to him.  
It was warm. It was gentle. It did not burn. It did not hurt to look upon it. Holmes sighed and drank it in.  
Bright and beautiful, it played with his hair. Rustled through his clothes as it sang to him. He felt light. Troubles went away, for the light was the answer to everything. It held everything.  
And he wanted it.  
"My god, I fogot how beautiful it is." Blackwood whispered from somewhere.  
Irene's voice spoke in Holmes' head. "Go to it. Don't fight. Don't make my mistake and stay. As much as I would love you to...Please, you deserve this."  
Why would he stay? There was nothing for him here, the light held everything. All that he wanted, all that there was, was waitng for him. He smiled. What else could he possibly want?....  
Watson laughed.  
He heard it. He's sure he did. It shook him out of whatever dream he was falling into. He jerked his head in the direction of that lovely sound, and saw him even through the light.  
Holmes felt himself regaining his senses, his control. His head cleared as he focused on Watson and his 'bride' as they danced merrily around the room. He frowned.  
"This isn't right." He shook his head. "It cannot be like this. Watson never married the dog!" Holmes used a hand for emphasis. "If that is so than he could have damn well taken my hand for all the sense this makes!"  
He fidgeted in his seat. "I will not let this lie."  
Holmes never noticed the light dissapearing, releasing its hold on him with a sigh of regret.  
He was, however, drawn to the attention of a very distinct whinny coming from his left. It startled him for this sound was new.  
As he turned towards it, he noticed that Blackwood and Irene were no longer by his sides. Instead, where Irene had once been sitting was now the short, fat little pony he begrudgingly rode on into Germany.  
It sat in the chair, snuffing and huffing as it devoured the bloody lump in Irene's napkin, which she had coughed up.  
Holmes gazed upon it with disgust, leaning as far away from it as humanly possible. When it didn't seem to move away or vanish, Holmes (throwing reason aside) decided to speak to it.  
"Pony, what on earth are you doing here?"  
No sooner had he uttered the last words had the pony grabbed a fork in its hoof and swiped it at Holmes.  
Holmes dodged the lunge by pushing his chair back. Before he could try to retaliate the pony took another swing, and another. With eyes blazing red the animal attacked without mercy.  
Holmes twisted and turned his body around, barely avoiding the now deadly weapon. But soon the leg of his chair got stuck on another, and as Holmes scooted away he uttered a cry of surprise as he fell backwards and rolled to a stance. But his feet weren't ready for it and he stumbled to one knee.  
The pony, now enraged that its prey escaped it, thrashed the chairs and table away, screeching an unearthly shriek. Silverware and plates shattered to the floor.  
The tablecloth got tangled in one of its hooves, and it fell hard. Holmes took this advantage to run from the creature, completely at a loss as to why this was happening. But not bothering to stay and find out.  
He blended into the crowd of people, occasionally looking back to see if the pony had gotten clear of its trap and would once again charge at him.  
Even through the chaos, Holmes observed that no one else seemed to react to what was going on, or even notice their existence. But the thought was fleeting when he saw Watson and made a beeline to him.  
He touched Watson's shoulder, grateful that the man wasn't a mirage. "Watson, quick, we must take our leave of this place." But Watson continued to dance and smile.  
Watson glanced at Holmes and said something, but it was drowned out by all the laughter and music. Holmes sighed in frustration; his patience was wearing thin. He grabbed Watson's arm and tugged. "Now is not the time for this. We must extridite ourselves from this lunacy--"  
Watson spun to him and punched Holmes hard in the chest.  
It startled him, and he backed away instinctively, touching where he was hit. He frowned at Watson.  
"Watson, what are you--"  
_"I know you can hear me, you selfish bastard!"_ Watson's appearance changed in an instant. Gone was his good humor and gentleness; he was now livid. His eyes were wide and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted at Holmes. The change was so extreme the detective didn't have a chance to defend himself as Watson continued his onslaught of punches into his chest.  
He hit him again.  
_"I know you can hear me, you selfish bastard!"_ Every hit drove Holmes backwards, draining his strength with each thrash. The partygoers began a maniacal laugh at his expense, their faces distorted in sneers and mockery. Gladstone/Mary barked and howled in the frenzy.  
_"I know you can hear me!"_ With one final blow, Holmes hit the ground flat on his back, his head cracked against the floor. Everything spun. He watched in a haze as the crowd clawed onto Watson, swallowing him in the sea of people as his fists continued to fly wildly. The doctor burned with such raging hatred at Holmes, and with one more shout of 'bastard' had disappeared from sight altogether.  
Holmes cast his eyes to the ceiling, breathing heavy. A terrible pain in his chest overtook him. One that was far deeper, personal, and more hidden than the bruises on the outside.  
Why did Watson react that way? Why was any of this happening? He didn't care what happened after that. He didn't know the man hated him so much.  
Holmes laid on the floor, thinking how sorry he was for everything that had transpired in the last few days. Not for himself, but for his friend. He regretted all that he had done to him, all that the man had been silently suffering through.  
It was too late to ask for forgiveness. It was too late for a lot of things.  
Grey shadows surrounded him like a low fog. Their very appearance zapped all noise from the room, until all that remained were the sounds of the detective breathing. For a while they remained shapeless. Then eventually took form as individual entities. Solid entities.  
It didn't take Holmes long to become aware of them. He turned his head, and within moments he wasn't surprised he knew them. Each and every one of them.  
They were the men and women Holmes had fought with, fought _for_ , in his lifetime. The lives of these people had been tragically linked to him in one way or another. Some of them only recently. Others from days long gone.  
Their expressions unreadable. Their eyes glossy and blank. They stared umoving at his postition on the floor as much a statue as if they were parts of the room.  
They were the lives of the lost. They were the souls of the dead.  
Holmes cast his eyes about him to each emotionless face. The French embassador and all the other delegates who perished in the horrific explosion remained in their tattered clothes. Blood pooled under some who were missing limbs. The sacrificed girls who Holmes failed to get to in time bled from open wounds to the chest. The American embassador burnt to a crisp. The swiss doctor with foam still bubbling around his lips.  
All were here. All staring at him with no feeling. No acknowledgement. No forgiveness.  
Holmes's eye fell once again to that of Lord Blackwood and Irene Adler. For they had materialized in the forefront inside the circle. But they too looked upon him as grey lifeless matter. Nothing like the animated selves of earlier.  
Holmes let his gaze flitter over his own form. He was as grey as they were. His brain was too lost to care.  
The hairs on the back of his neck and arms stood up. A shiver struck through his spine. He gasped, looked up. A shaft of pure light enveloped itself around him like a nurturing wave. The voices returned, comforting him. Lulling him into a sense of security. His eyes fluttered closed as he lowered his head. A breathy sigh escaped as he relaxed. Forcing himself to submit to whatever the light wanted of him.  
He didn't think it would return. But it had. It had come back to claim him...  
And this time he would let it.  
Holmes' leg twitched when an almost painful itch shot into his ankle. He frowned. He tried to pull his knee up but felt a heavy weight holding it still. Chewing sounds invaded his ears, he unclosed his eyes. The light had vanished once again. His frown deepened as he propped himself up on his elbows when it occured to him that Blackwood said one cannot feel pain in whatever place this was, but he did. He did just now...  
Holmes froze. He stared in alarm at his leg.  
Professor Moriarty gripped onto Holmes's calf and foot, blood smeared over his face. He layed flat on his belly as he furosiously knawed at the detective's ankle.  
Holmes gasped, sat up. He tried to jerk his leg away. Moriarty clung on tighter, continued to chew. He snapped his blue eyes to Holmes. They were wild, fierce.  
Suddenly the Professor let go of Holmes' leg and quick like a flash he scurried up the entire length of the detective's body, slamming him back down. He straddled him as Holmes grabbed Moriarty's shoulder and attempted to twist him off. But the red head smacked his hands away, and before Holmes had a chance to plant another move Moriarty pulled back his hand into a fist and _thrust it into Holmes' injured shoulder up to the elbow._  
White hot pain exploded into his body and mind. He arched up into his enemy, threw back his head and screamed.  
Moriarty grunted. He pulled out his bloodied arm, now holding a massive fork in his hand.  
Holmes collapsed back down, gasping for air. Everything hurt. It felt like he was on fire. He looked up at his tormentor; Moriarty was gone. In his place, with smoke tendrils puffing out the nostrils, eyes glowing demonic red...  
...sat the black pony. A massive fork in Its hoof.  
"No." Holmes moaned.  
It raised the weapon high above Its head, let out a high pitched whinny like a train whistle and stabbed the fork into Holmes' chest and--  
\----------  
Holmes snapped his eyes open, gasped deeply. He let out a wail as he wiggled to his feet and ran with a crash to the other side of the train compartment.  
_Train compartment?_  
Holmes struggled in vain to use his right arm, wincing at the shooting pain it caused to move it. It was strapped tight to his chest. He scanned his eyes around him wildly, looking for the satanic pony. It wasn't there.  
An unnatural amount of adrenaline surged through his body. He felt like he wanted to run around the woods a few times, possibly write a novel, and then find a cure for the common cold all while playing the entire score of Don Giovanni on his violin in four minutes.  
...And still have time to break a few noses at The Punch Bowl.  
He assessed the situation as he pushed himself away from the wall. His legs were not making standing easy. Nor the damn rocking of the train. His right ankle itched.  
He let out another groan.  
_The train. The train, I'm on the train. It was just a dream. My god! What a dream!_  
Holmes felt eyes staring at the back of his head. Knew one of them was Watson. His brain was working overtime, flopping words and images over each other. Before one single clear thought came to him he blurted out his mental adventure on fast forward, skipping most of the details.  
"What a dream I was having. You were marrying Gladstone and I was in a restaurant. That satanic pony was there as well, a massive fork in it's hoof and it turned on me!"  
Holmes nearly lost his balance as he gestured passionately with his free arm about the accursed fork. Watson moved forward, grabbed the smaller man's arm and stared into the crazed (but alive) dark eyes.  
"What have you administered?" _And where may I procure more?_  
Holmes was aware enough to know that Watson seemed to want to say somethng, or do something. It was in those blue eyes of his, a sort of relief and desperation. But it soon vanished for some unknown reason to the detective and he didn't linger on it for too long. Instead, for a fleeting moment Holmes wondered when the last time he himself had blinked.  
The doctor looked away with a sigh, lifted a silver tube in the air. "Your wedding gift."  
Holmes pulled his hand away from Watson and rubbed his chest, confused. He knew Watson never hit him, that was a dream. So why did...?  
"Who was dancing on my chest?!"  
"That would be me." Watson stated unapologetically into Holmes's ear as he moved behind him.  
_Then again, apparently he did hit me..._  
He shifted his feet; the damn tickle in his ankle not leaving him alone. Moriarty did _not_ nibble his foot. At least he's somewhat sure of that. _Better ask._  
"Why is my ankle so itchy?" He lifted each leg, his body now starting to become very heavy for them.  
"Because there is a large piece of wood sticking out of it."  
"Good Lord..." Holmes felt everything go hazy for an instant. He stumbled back again. Fatigue taking over. _Didn't I just sleep?_  
Watson had cleared the junk off of the protruding bench. He touched the detective's shoulder and gently guided him to sit down.  
_How could I almost forget?!_ "You, Tamas, I have an important task for you! Remind me of it later."  
As he sat, a strange object appeared in front of Holmes' face. He stared at it blankly.  
"Here, drink this. We have to remove the splinter before it gets septic." Watson was handing him some sort of little vial. After a beat Holmes grabbed the bottle and chugged the contents down. Not caring what it was.  
As he swallowed the tangy liquid, his mind went back to the Watson in the dream, to the nurturing one who is sitting next to him, gently lifting Holmes' injured leg into his lap. They were so different. And yet the words the dream Watson spoke were so real, so angry. It was the only thing he said to him. Over and over. He couldn't quite shake them off.  
So he thought he'd ask. "Did you call me a 'selfish bastard?'" He pointed an accusing finger.  
Watson didn't bother to look up. "Probably." _Probably? But unlikely? You admitted to hitting me yet deny shouting blasphemies! What part of this is real and how much is-- **no wait!**_  
Watson grasped firmly onto the bit of wood sticking out of the other man's ankle. The little bit of contact shot pain into his leg.  
"No leave it in! Leave it in!" Holmes reached out an arm, begging him to stop before--  
YANK.  
His breath hitched. It took an instant for the pain to shoot through his body, and yet Holmes's brain was just sluggish enough to be able to follow its path from source, up the spinal cord, and finally to his brain where it exploded to that oh so familiar spot that caused his mind to freeze. At least for that instant.  
It was like being stabbed in reverse. Not as excrutiating as his shoulder, but hardly a walk in the park. Holmes gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut. It was all he could do from screaming into the doctor's face and kicking him.  
A part of him knew Watson did it like that intentionally. Fast and rough. With the mental day he was having, he did not appreciate it one bit. He growled at him.  
"You are a, oh you are some sort of--"  
"Be nice." Watson stared Holmes down as he whipped off the other man's boot to get a better look at the injury.  
Holmes felt exhasperated. He wanted to lash out something but somehow understood he was being childish about it. He let it go with a sigh. Watson seemed surprised by the small victory he achieved and he and Simza echanged glances as the doctor continued to gently work on the ankle wound.  
Holmes watched the doctor rip another piece from his already torn shirt to start making bandages for Holmes's injury as well as cleaning off any dirt or blood as best he could remove. It was all done with great care as the railway car continued to rock back and forth on the track.  
The more he watched, the more he realized how true those words the dream Watson spoke were. He _was_ a selfish bastard. Everything Watson went through--everything he _will_ go through is all because Holmes dragged him along, kicking and screaming. The man didn't want this. He wanted his wife. He wanted a honeymoon. He wanted normalcy. He didn't want Holmes.  
He didn't want this.  
An acidic feeling started to gurgle and build in Holmes' stomach. His strength was draining from him. He needed to say something. "I'm sorry you didn't get to Brighton." he said with a half smile. Whether or not Watson believed him, he meant it. He hopes he did.  
Watson stilled for a moment, eyes distant as he took in what he heard. His mouth twitched a little. He turned and stared into Holmes' large dark eyes as if searching for something. "Me too."  
The two men shared a moment, then the doctor looked away and for the first time truly showed how much all of this had taken a toll on him. Holmes cast his eyes down. He could not bear to look at him anymore, knowing he was the cause for his current state.  
"I think we should go home." Watson stated quietly.  
"I concur." Holmes could feel more than see the astonished look Watson was giving him right now for not only agreeing with him but answering so immediate almost to the point of cutting him off it was almost not to be believed.  
"We're going home." Holmes heard Watson sigh in relief. He hated to destroy the man's slight euphoria but there was still the matter of Moriarty. And Holmes was finding it increasingly difficult to stay consious.  
He closed his eyes, grateful for the darkness and decided to give them all the rest of the bad news. "Via Switzerland. What a better place to start a war than a peace summit? We'll drop in and see my brother. I'm sure he's missed you. Hm?"

*~~Bonus Added Ending~~*  
Holmes knitted his brows as an uncertain thought crossed his mind. He unclosed his eyes and glared at Watson. "You emphatically did not marry Gladstone, correct?"  
Watson sighed, but could not help a smile from the seriousness of the question. "Yes Holmes. I did not."  
"Are you certain? She could possibly be hiding a collar--"  
"Holmes."  
Holmes raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence as Watson gave him one of his usual looks. Simza bit her lip. The heaviness in the air seemed to dissipate as things went back to normal.  
Something materialized behind Watson's shoulder. Holmes flicked his eyes to it, his face slackened. Watson frowned at the change in the detective's features and looked behind. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He turned to Simza who eyed the wall as well, but only shrugged a response.  
What Holmes could see that they didn't, was Blackwood and Irene standing against the wall facing him. Irene smiled and gave a slight wave, a bloody hanky protruding from her sleeve. Blackwood tilted his head in acknowledgement, otherwise remained perfectly still with hands clasped. Holmes gave a subtle shake of his head.  
_“O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.”_  
"Sorry?" Watson asked.  
After a pause, Holmes turned his attention back to the doctor after he heard his name called. "Hm?"  
Watson sighed. “Who are you talking to?"  
"Oh, no one in particular," He lied with a smile. "Just pondering on absent friends."  
Holmes glanced once more at his invisible guardians, then closed his eyes and gave in to sleep.

_\--fini--_

**Author's Note:**

> ((The mistake was I thought all these years Holmes said "You were marrying Gladstone and I was in a restaurant" when actually he says "You, Mary, Gladstone and I were in a restaurant".  
> B(.... Whole different story. Just shoot me now....8 years....dear God....I need hearing aids and a translator.))


End file.
